


Analemma

by Swordy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Seriously depressed Gladio, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2019-10-28 12:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17787098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: “I gave him an ultimatum and he didn’t choose me.”Gladio and Ignis go their separate ways during the World of Ruin, which Gladio comes to regret.This is the story of the events Gladio mentions inThe Shield





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Recipeh_for_Success](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recipeh_for_Success/gifts).



> Last year I wrote 'The Shield', in which the night before they return to Insomnia Gladio tells Noct about how he and Ignis embarked on a relationship following a period of separation. This fic tells the story of that time.
> 
> Written as a very belated birthday present for the wonderful, wonderful Recipeh for Success, who has gifted both me and the gladnis fandom with her incredible art. She wanted some whump, so hopefully this will satisfy. Thank you hon for everything. ❤️
> 
> Come find me on Twitter! I’m @SgtNoSpecs

Goblins.

Little. Fucking. Assholes.

It's always fucking goblins, Gladio thinks wearily. His great sword takes out two of the little bastards at once, which would be cause for celebration if there weren’t another twenty of them waiting to take their place. To his left, a hunter—Bob maybe, or Rob—is slashing at them with terrifying alacrity, his face a study in snarling rage. Bob/Rob apparently lost a good friend on a hunt last week so Gladio knows there’s a therapeutic aspect to being able to eviscerate a few daemons, even if they’re not the ones directly responsible for your pain.

Mercifully, they only have to contend with a couple of flans once the nest of goblins is cleared. There’s always that moment when the last daemon dies, and those hunters left standing are silent, listening—perhaps praying to which ever Astral they think isn't hell-bent on shitting all over humanity—that something else isn’t about to rise up from the earth and insist on Round Two when they’re tired and dirty and want to go home.

Those tense few seconds pass. Then there’s a shout. Someone's down and bleeding badly and all at once everything starts up again with that grim filter overlaid that someone amongst their number might not make it.

They don’t.

Gladio finds this out hours later once they’re back at Meldacio, adrenaline and nervous tension burnt away by the comforting glare of the spotlights that keep the daemon hordes at bay. There’s a somber atmosphere in the barn that serves as a mess hall. People eat, heads down. Later, there will be drinking—the only booze they have now is terrible and people are way beyond pretending otherwise—later still there might be fighting because sometimes it's the best way to channel rage and misery. Tomorrow there will be new hunts, and new deaths. When they toast the fact that they’re still alive it seems fitting that it’s with such gods-awful drink when surviving is hardly the prize it once was.

Gladio tends to keep to himself when the mood is so maudlin. They’ve all lost so much; there’s not a soul here who hasn’t been touched by grief and loss at some point since the darkness fell and the last thing he needs is to be sucked further into despair by sitting around a fire trading sad stories in a pissing contest no one wants to win.

Instead, he clings to his memories of those campfires with Noct and the others like a talisman. If he can concentrate hard enough to block out the swearing and fighting of his fellow hunters after the home brew has kicked in, he can picture the others so vividly that it makes him simultaneously want to smile and weep.

The best nights were when Noct and Prompto lost themselves in Kings Knight, leaving him and Iggy to sit, with full bellies, enjoying the stars together. Such simple pleasures, so many things taken for granted at the time. In their early twenties, the world was theirs. Almost a decade later the world observes their plight with an indifferent eye, and now he struggles to think of those nights, the comforting nostalgia having given way to pain of almost breathtaking intensity.

Sometimes, he forces himself to think of them. He’s not sure when he developed such a masochistic streak, but it feels like a fitting punishment for all his failures. For Altissia. For letting Noct be lost to the crystal.For being unable to defeat Ardyn. For the yawning chasm that now exists between him and Iggy.

The irony doesn’t escape him that the person he mourns the most isn’t even dead.

OoOoO

As far as he's aware, Ignis is still in Lestallum. Those who know him well—Iris, Cor even Talcott, who has grown up faster than any kid should have to—know that his casual enquiries about Ignis's welfare are anything but casual, judging by the careful way they deliver the news. He’s never confirmed as much to anyone, but Iris in particular has always been an intuitive kid, with an uncanny nose for the way his heart moves.

Amongst the general hunting community, Ignis is fast becoming the stuff of legends. Oblivious to Gladio's feelings for the man in question, they swap stories about this blind guy who thinks he can hunt. In the early days Gladio had a job holding his tongue. He'd listen, hands curling into fists beneath the table at the scorn and derision, even though the preposterousness of Ignis hunting was what had driven them apart in the first place.

Now the stories are different as the months and years have passed: mocking laughter has become grudging acknowledgment and whispered awe. Those who have hunted with him say he’s good—there are still skeptics with their theories and Gladio's pretty sure he’s heard 'em all, up to and including that Ignis must be feigning the severity of his sight loss—but the tide has definitely turned in his favour, and if that makes Iggy's life easier, then Gladio is okay with that.

Good or bad, Gladio hates them talking about Ignis, like he has some kind of ridiculous proprietary claim over the other man, but conversely he accepts that if they’re talking about him, it means he’s still alive, and that, Gladio is _definitely_ okay with.

The other topic of conversation that Gladio hates with a passion is this obsession with the sun's movement across the sky. Almost every town and outpost he’s been to, they are tracking it and recording its position hour by hour before interpreting the data and portentously drawing their conclusions. There’s barely any daylight at all now, maybe two or three hours of it at best. The fact that the encroaching night is expected doesn’t make it any less feared, because the presence of the sun gives people hope. Gladio's seen a lot of hope disappearing. Every death, every outpost lost, pulls people further into despair. The world will surely never be the same again. And Gladio isn’t immune. More times than he can count, he’s drunk himself into oblivion just to escape the increasing shittiness of everything. 

So the days get shorter and the supplies run thinner. He can cope with a bedroll and a diet that’s restricted to canned goods and whatever he can catch, but he hates never being truly clean and despite his love of the great outdoors, he knows he’s got his crown city upbringing to thank for that. He works hard to maintain his personal hygiene, inwardly judging others who don’t do the same. But the years bring greater hardship and it’s a battle even he starts to lose. The day he realises that he’s stopped noticing everyone's shit-stink—presumably because he smells just as bad—is a day where he makes a solid attempt to get as drunk as the supplies will allow.

Since he’s been at Meldacio, Gladio’s seen Aranea a few times, when she and her crew drop by to refuel or lend a hand with a local hunt or two. In another life, he thinks he’d actually like her—she reminds him of Crowe Altius with her clear policy on taking neither shit nor prisoners—and he’s always going to have a grudging respect for her fighting chops, but, as with most things, his feelings toward her all come back to Ignis.

He knows Iggy and Aranea forged the unlikeliest of bonds whilst he was away challenging Gilgamesh and those foundations have always bugged him, despite the fact that he can readily admit that they’re born of jealousy. Via the grapevine and out of the mouth of the commodore herself, he knows that Aranea has been instrumental in getting Iggy back to fighting form. She’s never been one to pull punches, both figuratively and metaphorically, so she was always going to be a good choice to rehabilitate him. Still, she has this smug way of talking about the time she spends with Ignis—completely for Gladio's benefit, of course—that makes him wonder if they’re still talking about combat or whether the conversation segued into sex three sentences earlier and he just didn’t realise.

It’s crossed his mind that she and Iggy could be knocking boots, which is another idea he adds to the pile when he’s feeling particularly masochistic. Again, he knows he’s no right to get bent out of shape over whatever it is Iggy's getting up to when he squandered his own chance so spectacularly, but that doesn’t stop him hoping and wishing that things were different.

So he fights and eats and sleeps and then wakes up at a time that no longer identifies itself as morning to do it all over again, until he finds that there is over half a decade between himself and the life he once had. Trying to track the passage of years feels futile and pointless, just like all the days people spent agonising over the position of the sun. Time, Gladio thinks, will do what the fuck it wants regardless of anyone’s feelings on the matter.

Despite the hardship of life, he tells himself that it’ll be worth it because how else can he drag himself out of bed otherwise? He tells himself that Noct will return one day. That everything will be okay if he can just fucking hang on. That even if he’s got nothing, he can make a future for Iris and his friends. But some days the grind is almost unbearable. Some days he wonders if being ripped to pieces by a daemon wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to him. Maybe he’s losing his fucking mind.

One day, word comes that sends ripples across Meldacio. The Coernix station at Cauthess has fallen because daemons who are supposed to be dumb as rocks, have worked out to attack the spotlights, leaving the building and its occupants at their mercy. At last count, the station was housing about twelve people, who provide valuable supplies for those making the journey between Lestallum and Cape Caem. Only two made it out alive. The news is greeted with muted horror before they begin to process the realisation that if one place is vulnerable, then they all are. The daemons might not be able to physically get to the spotlights, but, it turns out, being as dumb as a rock doesn’t preclude them from throwing them, so now Cauthess is gone and more people are dead.

Once they emerge from the grief and shock, talk turns toward ensuring that the same doesn’t happen elsewhere. Cages are quickly erected around the spotlights at Meldacio, then teams are formed to shore up other outposts and towns in the same manner. Gladio gets assigned to the group heading to Fort Vaullerey, but before they can leave, a frantic SOS is received from Old Lestallum and their efforts are diverted there instead.

Dave Auburnbrie drives at a speed just this side of reckless, urging his truck as fast as he dares whilst the rest of them—Gladio included—sit in grim-faced silence in the back. The others check and ready their weapons. For Gladio it’s as simple as studying his hand for that shimmer of light that confirms he’s still able to summon weapons from the armiger. He moves his fingers, watching the familiar glow dance across his calloused palm and tries to draw comfort from it. 

They make it to Old Lestallum without incident, which is the only favour fate evidently feels like doing them right now. Even parked up a short distance away it’s easy to see that the outpost is aflame; Ogres, Bombs and— _for_ _fuck's_ _sake_ —not one, but two Red Giants tearing the place apart. The spotlight on the roof of the Crow's Nest is still working—defiantly beaming outwards and illuminating an area beyond the barricades that is utterly free of daemons. They need to clear the daemons and then repair the lights, whilst holding off any newcomers that might be attracted by the activity.

Piece of cake.

He recognises some of the faces amongst the hunters he’s come with as they watch in silence; they’re brave, skilled men and women but they’re also severely outnumbered and their solemn expressions indicate that they know it too. Gladio hates fights where luck is a necessary component rather than a nice optional extra, and this is definitely one of those occasions. He swallows down the reality that everyone he’s sitting here with ain’t making it out. Obliquely, he wonders when pessimism became his default state before he reminds himself that it’s impossible to make light of anything when you exist in perpetual darkness.

“So how we gonna do this?” he asks Dave, trying to force his head into the game against the pull of just sitting there and letting it all happen and maybe finally getting some _motherfucking_ _peace_ even if it means dying to do so. Dave glances around at the carnage, the knot of muscle in his jaw jumping. He’s weighing up how they get out of this with minimal damage. Maybe there isn’t a way. Maybe the only non-stupid, non-suicidal thing for them to do is to drive straight back to Meldacio and forget that Old Lestallum and the unfortunate people sheltering here ever existed. Dave drags a hand down his face. Gladio doesn’t envy him trying to drum up some morale amongst these people who know there's a good chance they’re gonna die.

“Pick off the bombs goin' in, try to draw the ogres away from the fucking red bastards so we can deal with 'em without interference. Those o' you with long range weapons get to the lights once you’ve done your bit.”

It’s as good a plan as any, which isn’t saying much. There are nods of agreement though, so evidently it’s enough.

“Well, ain’t no time like the present,” Dave says, his tone aiming for a final stab at levity to the assembled group. Gladio drops a hand on his shoulder as he passes. Dave glances at him, a quick flash of gratitude that Gladio's certain he doesn’t deserve, and then all of a sudden they’re moving.

Heartbeat synchronous with his footsteps. From somewhere to his left he’s dimly aware of the creak of a crossbow being loaded. Galiya is fucking awesome with a crossbow. He sends a vague prayer to the astrals that she’s brought her A-game today. On his right, Tarrin, who’s wearing possibly the stupidest hat he's ever seen—up to and including the one Noct brought back from the Chocobo Mog Carnival—is unsheathing his twin katanas. A quick mental shake and his great sword is in his hand. He resettles his grip, muscles flexing as the first surge of adrenaline hits his veins.

And it starts.

True to form, Galiya and the other long-range fighters start to pick off the bombs before they can get close. One slips past, but someone manages to reload and it explodes before it can get too close to the advancing hunters. Understandably, the ruckus attracts the attention of the other daemons who turn from the destruction of Old Lestallum, presumably excited by the prospect of doing damage to flesh and blood rather than metal and timber.

They spread out—divide and conquer. For someone who fights with a great sword, Gladio's always glad for this tactic, because the last thing he needs is to injure a comrade when he’s fighting. Still, it’s utter chaos. Whether it’s the noise or the destruction of the spotlight or some other sixth fucking sense, but more and more daemons are drawn to the fray, which converts a borderline untenable situation into a 'pretty sure we're fucked' situation.

Especially when the newcomers include coeurls. 

“For fuck's sake.” Gladio runs through an ogre, pulls his sword free and hurries to despatch another. Out of his peripheral vision someone falls—fuck knows who—but just as quickly he sees another hunter going to their aid, so he concentrates his efforts on levelling the playing field.

Coeurls always remind him of Iggy, and not just their matching penchant for patterned coverings. Their bodies are built for agility—not that they’re lacking in strength by any means—but their power is contained beneath those long, sleek lines, dancer's movements that draw the eye and hold it so hypnotically that they’ve ripped your throat out before you've even noticed.

He counts three; one would be bad enough, but this many means almost certain death. He wonders what the collective noun is for coeurls. A catastrophe, maybe? A fuck-up, definitely. There’s a scream from somewhere to his left, which stops abruptly and somehow the cessation of that fucking awful noise is worse. Instinctively he glances over, and that’s all the window that’s needed for this bad day to get even worse because next thing he knows, he’s lying on his back under the weight of a snarling, hungry killer.

So this is it. This is actually the moment he’s gonna die.

He’s imagined it a thousand ways over the years. As Noct's shield he pictured taking a blade or a bullet intended for his charge; a noble death in service to the crown. Since everything went to shit, his musings have become more visceral—a gory tableau painted by an artist who only works in red. As he sluggishly ducks claws, only for another set to pin him to the ground like a lepidopterist's prize specimen, he doesn’t know whether to feel depressed or victorious that he was right.

His lungs start to burn, his eyes watering at the fetid breath as the coeurl snarls in his face. He’s felled behemoths five times the size of this thing, but his impressive scorecard counts for nothing here.He closes his eyes and wills himself not to tense up, maybe save himself a little pain on his final journey, but the claws and teeth never come.

“Gladio!” Dave yells, rudely destroying any chance he’s got of dying in peace. “Wake the fuck up!”

There’s a moment of increased pressure, then the weight that's across his shredded chest disappears and he opens his eyes to see Dave pissed as all hell, hand extended, as the coeurl lies dead on the ground beside him. Gladio accepts the assistance reflexively, even though he’s pretty certain that getting vertical isn’t going to improve things any. No surprises that he’s right as his body screams in protest, stealing his breath and there’s a moment where he thinks he’s just gonna fall over again. He breathes, and waits for the feeling to pass.

To compound his misery, Dave rounds on him the moment it's clear he's not gonna drop dead on the spot. “If you wanted to commit suicide you coulda done that at camp and given someone else your seat in the fucking truck.”

He ducks his gaze, knowing it’s true.

“Yeah, sorry.”

Clearly caught off-guard by his acquiescence, Dave gives him a cursory once over, his expression softening to a mixture of annoyance and concern whilst he simultaneously tries to keep his eye on the rest of the action going on around them.

“You okay?” 

“Yeah.”

Evidently this is all the pep talk Dave is able or willing to give. He nods sharply, then claps his hand on Gladio's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that brings a lump to Gladio's throat.

“Come on, Amicitia. I _need_ you. You’re the best we've got.”

At this moment it seems debatable, but he decides it would be churlish to contest the compliment. “Thanks,” he says gruffly. 

There’s still that question in Dave's eyes, but instead he nods again. “Yeah well, you wanna thank me? You can do that by helping us get out of here in one piece.”

He glances past Dave, to the Red Giant currently kicking an abandoned car out of its way like it’s made of paper. Summoning his great sword again, he starts to jog, then run, and then he’s fighting, swinging the almighty weapon, cleaving a path through the daemons. For Iris. And Iggy and Prompto and Noct. He bellows in outrage, fury curdling in his veins because he’s _so_ _fucking_ _sick_ _of_ _this_ _shit_. 

And though he might not think much of Dave's pep talk, something in him responds to the plea. It drives that smothering sense of hopelessness back, allowing him to fight with the optimism that they’re going to win even if the odds are still stacked against them. He yells in triumph as each enemy falls and as the field starts to clear. Fuck knows how, but they’re doing it.

Then. Holy fuck, _no_. The air ahead of him shimmers—a shout to his left confirms it’s happening there too—and suddenly he’s staring into the gaping maw of a necromancer. Instinctively he steps back. These fuckers are worse than coeurls and giants combined. They're hard enough to beat at the best of times, but they’re all exhausted and haven’t come prepared for necromancers; they’ve no magic users in their party and he’s the only one with a weapon that the creepy fuckers display a weakness towards. He can’t take them both down. He _can’t_.

He fights on nonetheless, and because their luck is relentlessly crap, they're quickly joined by a small army of skeletons that the necromancers are able to summon. Other hunters rush to attack them, leaving him to deal with the main act. He focuses his attention on the one nearest to him, his stance defensive as he waits for his chance to attack. Every muscle in his body is protesting the effort as he swings his sword in a punishing downward arc only to cleave through dead air. He knows these bastards can move like this but he’s too exhausted to react quickly enough. He also knows that it's gonna re-materialise behind him a fraction of a second before he can turn, and that fraction of a second will be all it needs to end him.

But death never comes. Instead he’s unceremoniously shoved forward into the dirt away from the necromancer's attack. He rolls over in time to watch the daemon be vaporised in an icy blast, its diaphanous form fading away to give him a clear view of—

 _Iggy_?

What the actual fuck?

“Are you okay?” Ignis barks, his daggers still trailing frost as they move. For a moment Gladio thinks Ignis is actually looking at him; his 'good' eye—admittedly a laughable description for it—raking over him before settling on the ground just to his right. From this angle he looks tall and imposing, his features sharp behind the visor. His hair is immaculate, which Gladio realises is a ridiculous thing to be aware of at this moment. Ignis suddenly tilts his head to one side; Gladio realises belatedly that he's listening to what’s going on around them rather than waiting for Gladio's answer, which he still hasn’t given.

“Yeah.” He staggers to his feet, his sword a handy support to heave himself upwards. He grimaces as he drags a hand across his hair, sweat and grime either deposited on, or lifted off his scalp. The thought that Ignis shouldn’t see him covered in blood and dirt is long past its infancy before he remembers why it’s stupid. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Where the hell did you come from?”

A second after he’s asked, he spots other hunters who weren't here previously, and beyond them another truck, headlights and a large mounted spotlight on its roof illuminating the darkened parking lot outside the Crow's Nest.

“Lestallum,” comes the sharp reply, the final syllable lost to the darkness as Ignis turns his head suddenly, tracking the movement of the other necromancer. His frost-bound daggers are readied once more and Gladio watches, fascinated, as Ignis stalks away.

“Iggy, wait...”

There are a million questions he wants to ask, but through the exhaustion and blood loss he can appreciate that now isn’t the time.

 _Later_ , he thinks, which turns out to be his last coherent thought before he staggers, falls, and sinks into unconsciousness, the sounds of battle fading to a dull roar as the blackness claims him absolutely.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of my gorgeous friend Recipeh, I tried to get this next instalment finished for her birthday this year. Sadly I failed, mainly because this chapter wouldn’t stop growing. But it’s here now so here you go, my lovely. I hope you enjoy it! ❤️
> 
> Thank you Atropa for your invaluable support as always!

Turns out getting seriously injured whilst you’re nursing a low-lying fever that you didn’t even know you had is a pretty fucking bad idea. With less than adequate living conditions, Gladio's used to feeling damn far from a hundred percent most of the time, so it ain’t the craziest thing in the world that he could miss the fact that he was getting sick when he set off to try and save Old Lestallum.

But getting skewered by a coeurl when you’re sick is seriously bad timing. Not that he remembers any of it, but once the daemons were all dead, Old Lestallum was left in the hands of those who could fix the lights while Dave sped his unconscious ass back to Meldacio, presumably cursing up a storm whilst praying that he didn’t die before they got there. To the relief of everybody—bar Gladio himself—he survives the journey and the next crucial hours and days. 

Eventually he comes to. The prize he gets for this is realising he ain't dead. His skull pounds and body hurts too much and death is supposed to be a fuckin' release, so this ain’t it. A glance around tells him he’s in the caravan at Meldacio, which means one of two things: either he’s being afforded this comparative luxury because he’s Crownsguard—a distinction that makes him uncomfortable and shouldn’t count for shit these days—or he was the most gravely injured on that last hunt. Typical. He makes it to Death's Door and fucks up something as simple as knocking and asking to come in.

In the contest of which part of him hurts the most the correct answer is 'all of them'. Visibly, now his eyes can focus properly, he’s a mess of wounds that are starting to heal and others that are still covered by bandages. When he touches his head it’s with a wince at the twin lines of uneven scabbed over skin that cuts a path through his hair. 

He moves his exploration lower and quickly discovers the pièce de résistance in the form of a fairly sizeable bandage taped across his chest. Peeling it back carefully reveals a series of ugly but healing wounds and instantly he’s flashed back to the sensation of claws piercing flesh and muscle.

Fucking coeurls. He dwells miserably on that disastrous encounter for a moment before turning his attention to the trio of necromancers. Thinking about them brings his thoughts to the one person who makes him hurt more than any physical injury could. Foggy memories are thrown into sharp focus. Ignis Scientia. He groans quietly.

Not quietly enough it turns out. The sound alerts someone in the other room. Booted footsteps, the creak of a door and then he’s faced with the one person he ain't equipped to deal with even on his best day.

“Iggy,” he rasps. “Fancy seein' you here.”

Even away from the battlefield, Ignis is still tall and imposing. He’s also still beautiful, sharply dressed and put together in a way that shouldn’t be possible anymore. Gladio's heart does a funny stutter which he probably should be more concerned about given his current physical status. When Ignis doesn’t reply, he says, “how long was I out?”

The statue comes to life, although his expression—for what Gladio can see of it around that damned visor—never changes. “Four days, give or take a few hours.”

“Holy shit,” Gladio mutters under his breath. He scratches at his beard. Yup, definitely several days' growth there. “What'd I miss?” 

“Very little, aside from the entire population of Meldacio praying fervently for your survival.”

Gladio manages to haul himself up onto his elbows even though it hurts like fuck to do so. Generally speaking, he’s intimidated by nothing and no one, but Iggy's sightless scrutiny makes him uncomfortable in a way that’s difficult to qualify. “Yeah? Did _you_ pray for me, Iggy?”

Ignis's lips are a thin bloodless line as he extends his hand to orientate himself with his surroundings. Long, talented fingers brush against the wall as he steps into the bedroom, circumnavigating the bed to find the chair he’s obviously set up in the corner. He lowers himself down so now he’s eye level with Gladio.

“At this point I have little faith in the astrals' interest in either us or our world... but I suppose in times of desperation, even the most cynical of men will look for aid in desperate places.”

It ain’t answering the question, but it’s a yes all the same. It’s weirdly comforting to know that Iggy doesn’t want him dead.

“I remember the coeurls, and the necromancers. But the rest is a blur.”

“Unsurprising. By all accounts you'd taken a number of blows before the coeurl impaled you. Then when you collapsed you hit your head.”

That accounts for the bitch of a headache, then.

“It also appears you had a low grade fever even before you went out to Old Lestallum. Did you know?”

Gladio shrugs, then remembers that’s not gonna cut it as an answer. “I felt kinda rough, I guess. But no, I didn’t know I was sick.”

“Well, the sum of those parts meant that it was touch and go for a while. But you seemed to turn a corner about twelve hours ago when your fever finally broke.”

“So I’m gonna make it, am I?”

Ignis makes a face, presumably at his lack of enthusiasm. Gladio changes the subject quickly, simply to avoid being subjected to further disapproval.

“So... how many did we lose out there?”

Hesitation. “Four. Nearly five if you hadn’t made it.”

Gladio takes a moment to process that. When he’s stronger he’ll ask for the names. But not now.

“What about Old Lestallum?”

“It’s operational again. All the lights and fences have been repaired.”

“Thank fuck.”

Ignis doesn’t respond to that, and the silence invites something awkward and tense into the room. Several beats of time pass. Voices pass close by outside and Gladio realises he’d forgotten that there’s still a world (albeit a completely fucked one) beyond these paper-thin caravan walls. He used to love being alone with Ignis. They were precious moments to be treasured amidst the unending burden of their duties. Illicit time snatched together that no one could know about.

“Dave told me he’s been worrying about you for a while now,” Ignis says abruptly, dragging Gladio from his thoughts. “You never should have gone on that hunt.”

Gladio imagines people talking about him behind his back. It should make him angry, but it doesn’t. Just weary. It takes very little effort to recall the looks Dave shot at him when they were out at Old Lestallum. It’s a fact that if Iggy weren’t blind, he’d be doin' it too. After a moment, Ignis bends over, reaching beneath the chair for something Gladio can’t see. When he straightens up, he’s holding a thermometer. His fingers deftly find the button and it turns on with a beep.

“Here.” Ignis hands it over and Gladio dutifully inserts it into his ear. He can only pray that it doesn’t come out full of wax because he ain’t sure the last time he had a really good wash. He's about to ask Ignis how he manages to read the display, when the gadget beeps and a voice intones the result.

“Cool,” Gladio remarks, looking at the device—no wax, _thank fuck_ —before handing it back to Ignis. “Where’d you get that?”

Ignis packs it away and straightens up. “People keep an eye out for things that might be useful for me when they’re on their travels.”

A stab of guilt. How the _fuck_ did he let Ignis go wandering alone? He wonders what Noct would say if he knew.

“You managing okay?” he asks softly. It certainly looks that way but he ain’t naive enough to think it’s been plain sailing, even for someone as intelligent and resourceful as Ignis. Even just thinking about never being able to see again sends Gladio's pulse racing. To have to deal with that without the luxury of time or a safe place to do it is fuckin' insane. But the reality is, Iggy's doing that. Just like he said he would.

Right now though Ignis is radiating tension, sitting stiffly in the chair, his fingers wrapped around the knee of his crossed leg like his arms are a wall and Gladio's the enemy waiting at the gates. Ignis has never been a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, but over the time they’ve been apart the impenetrability of his defences have shifted from impressive to legendary.

“Well enough,” comes the clipped reply. Gladio's about to try again— _anything_ to pierce this unbearable tension—when Ignis says, “What’s going on with you, Gladio?”

Gladio plucks at the shabby blanket covering the lower half of his body, playing for time in a gesture that Ignis can’t see. “What d'you mean?”

Iggy bristles in that barely perceptible way of his. Behind the visor, his eye narrows like he’s scrutinising Gladio and the results are unfavourable.

“I mean _you_. Your appearance for a start.”

Gladio frowns at that, whilst self-consciously reaching up to touch his hair again, this time avoiding the claw slashes on the crown. He winces. It’s long and tangled and feels like something a Zu would happily build a nest out of. Anyway, how the fuck does Iggy know?

“Before you ask the obvious, I tended your wounds. Your hair hasn’t seen a comb in possibly weeks—months maybe. Your beard is unkempt—”

“Hey—”

“You _smell_.”

Maybe he did die after all, because being in physical pain whilst being verbally eviscerated by Ignis 'zero bedside manner' Scientia is pretty fuckin' intolerable.

“Fuck, Iggy. Way to get personal,” he says morosely, irritated that he can’t even glare at the other man. Well he can, but the effect is lost completely when the other person can’t see it. “I dunno if you’ve noticed, but the world's gone to shit so personal hygiene ain’t exactly a priority.”

“So you’re fine then?”

“Yes I’m fine.” The reply is weak even to his own ears, never mind ones as sharp as Iggy's. Evidently Ignis isn’t falling for it either as his lips purse. Despite expecting this response, Gladio bristles. “What? Just come right out an' say it, Iggy. It’s clear you ain’t done.”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, honestly.”

“Well if you really want the truth I’m just trying to remember which one of us is blind.”

Gladio frowns, not sure he’s really in any fit state for conversations where getting to the point involves taking the scenic route. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s obvious you’ve lost sight of everything you do have, even in a world that's 'gone to shit'.” Ignis says those last words carefully, like they don’t belong in his mouth, even though Gladio’s always found it simultaneously hot and amusing to hear Ignis swear.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

Ignis tilts his head and somehow Gladio can imagine the incredulity in his once-green eyes. He's gotten good at conveying his feelings without them, or maybe he always could. Maybe the rest of Iggy's face and body language said everything it needed to say, but Gladio was just too damned busy being lost in those eyes.

“You have people to fight for, people who love you and care for you—”

Gladio groans. “You're kiddin' me, right? Listen, Iggy, if you’re gonna give me the 'sack up' speech, don’t bother. I’m just so damned tired—”

“People who depend on you.” Ignis cuts across him like he's never spoken. “Whether you want them to or not. You’re people's hope, Gladio. Noct may not be around, but you have something to shield. People who’ve lost more than they ever thought they could, still have hope that things will be better eventually because of you. And Noct who’ll return one day; imagine him coming back to find you gone, not in some noble sacrifice saving others, but suicide by daemon just because you’re _too bloody tired_!”

The tirade rattles around the thin walls. Iggy's voice has grown in volume and anyone walking past outside will have definitely caught part of this lecture, but Gladio's too stunned to care. Part of him wants to tell Iggy to step the fuck off, but his memory helpfully reminds him that this has often been his own strategy when dealing with Noct in his most apathetic moments. A shock to the system. A wake up call. Tough love.

“Anyway,” Ignis says evenly, having regained his composure, as he stands up suddenly. He’s still furious though, no matter how much he’s trying to pretend he’s not. “You’re on the mend so I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

The abruptness almost causes whiplash to be added to Gladio's list of injuries, but despite the unsolicited (but not entirely unjustified) criticism, Gladio doesn’t actually want him to go. He’s pictured their reunion many times over the long, lonely nights here at Meldacio and it’s fair to say this scenario has never been one of them. Doesn’t stop him wanting though.

“Someone will bring you something to eat shortly,” Ignis says smoothly.

“Someone? So not you then?”

Ignis looks as if he’s debating it internally before he shakes his head sharply. “There was talk of sending a delegation over to Hammerhead. I might be needed there. We don’t know the details yet.”

Gladio studies Ignis for a moment, his stiff posture, body already angled toward the door. In a fucked up kinda way, the hardship of this life suits Iggy. His clothing choices were always so crisply cut and buttoned up—and they suited him, no doubt about that—but the faded henley teemed with worn denim and large jackboots give him an air of danger that wasn’t there before. With his scars and visor and his fearlessness in choosing to hunt despite his disability it’s no wonder he’s becoming something of a legend.

But Iggy doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want _him_.

This reunion Gladio's pictured so many times over the years is going as badly as he's sometimes feared it would. But there’s shit he needs to say, even if it changes nothing between them. It’s eaten away at him for long enough now.

“Iggy, wait,” he rasps. “Please.”

Ignis turns slightly, his expression unhappy, but at least he stays put because Gladio sure has shit ain't got the energy to get up and run after him. Taking this as acquiescence, Gladio accelerates straight through this green light, hoping he can convey what he needs to say without fucking things up. Or fucking things up more.

“Iggy. I wanna say I’m sorry. I won’t lie—if we had to do everything over again, I’d _still_ not want you out there.” He pauses, watching Ignis carefully even though the other man is holding himself motionless as he listens. “You shoulda stayed in Altissia after you got injured. I think deep down even you know that and I'll never regret trying to get you to stay behind.” Lips purse, the tell almost imperceptible. “But after Noct had gone and you wanted to get back out there... well, I shoulda supported you instead of trying to stop you. It was your choice. And I should have never given you that ultimatum. That was a dick move.” Gladio sighs, frustrated that Iggy can’t _see_ his sincerity. May as well lay it all out, irrespective of the consequences.

“I ain’t proud of what I did, but know I did it because I love you and I was fucking _terrified_ of losing you. And I just need you to know that. I never doubted that you’d be able to fight again, it was never about that. Fuck, I’ve known you my whole life and I know you can do _anything_ if you put your mind to it. I just... wanted to keep you safe. Please forgive me, Iggy.”

He stops, utterly spent. And yet he’d say it all again—a _thousand_ times if need be—if it’ll make Iggy understand. The response though is an audible exhale—fuck it, who's he kidding—it’s a sigh. Then Ignis turns and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Shit,” Gladio mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

With little else to do but engage in post-match analysis, Gladio resorts to giving himself a good kicking. How the fuck did he squander that opportunity so spectacularly? He finally gets the chance to apologise and he _has_ to go and point out that he still thinks Ignis shouldn’t have continued on with them after Altissia? No wonder Iggy left so abruptly.

“Shit,” he says again, which appears to be a depressingly accurate summation of these events.

OoOoO

Naively Gladio assumes regaining consciousness after a couple of days completely out of it has set him on a trajectory that points straight to recovery. Not so. After Iggy leaves he finds himself overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. Naturally he rails against such apparent frailty, but finds his indignation is no match for that which ails him, and he sinks back into the pillow and is under before he can give it another thought. And thus a pattern emerges.

He eats at some points—he _must_ , because gradually he gets stronger, even though he’s no idea what he puts in his mouth and who brings it. But mostly he sleeps. Sometimes he dreams and it's so fuckin' vivid he finds it impossible to believe it's not real.Shame really, since some of his dreams see him reconciled with Ignis after his heartfelt entreaty. One he ashamedly cleaves to is the one where Ignis strips him and fucks him, his face a mask of impassivity throughout. It’s obvious from the way Ignis grips Gladio's hips and pistons into him that he’s channeling all the anger into this encounter. Yet Gladio revels in the memory of it, relieved to have some kind of reaction from Ignis that’s not desertion.

Iggy's always had a good body, but before there was a softness to it too. He trained regularly—as Crownsguard he had to—but hours sat behind a desk meant that he never went beyond being a person with a good level of physical fitness. Now though... now the darkness has hardened Iggy's muscles along with his attitude. He is long and lean and even in the dream, Gladio is excited by how little give there is in the body beneath his fingertips.

But sadly a dream is all it is. Iggy doesn’t come back. When lucidity and company are in rare but fortuitous alignment, Gladio asks if Ignis is still in town. The first guy acts like he doesn’t know who he’s talking about, like there are hundreds of blind, ex-Crownsguard hunters kicking ass out there. After that, the same question nets him various versions of ' _I don’t know_ ', which is complete bullshit if ever Gladio's heard it.

Naturally, the answer is to get up and go look for himself. But some things are easier said than done and the fact that he’s still having to piss in a pot off the side of the bed is a sobering reminder that he's still closer to the wrong end of the death/good health continuum. After two days—he _thinks_ it’s two days because he’s bored shitless and desperate to escape the torture of living in his own head at this point—he's convinced that he could probably crawl his way out of here and get some answers. At the very least, someone should take pity on his pathetic ass and go find Ignis for him if he makes it as far as the caravan door.

Fortunately his unwise break for freedom doesn't become a necessity. He's lying there stewing in his own misery, idly wondering how long it will take for him to lose the last vestiges of his sanity when he hears the caravan door opening. _Thank fuck_ , he thinks, right up until the moment the visitor comes into view and he realises that in his half-dead, half-nuts state he has to deal with seeing Ignis again.

“Hey,” he gravels, because no one can say he's not smooth as fuck. “You came back.”

Ignis holds his position for a moment before offering an almost imperceptible nod. His hand moves out to find the wall and then he makes his way down the cramped bedroom to locate the seat that no one's seen fit to take away. It’s almost unnerving watching him move, his hand the only tell that he can’t see.

“So it seems,” Ignis says once he’s settled in the chair. It sounds weary, resigned almost, but still guarded. Gladio finds himself sitting up straighter, trying to smooth over his hair like somehow the reason for Iggy's visit is important when in reality it’s probably just going to be another lecture about personal hygiene.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Gladio starts, but stops abruptly in response to Ignis's raised hand.

“Don't.”

Evidently satisfied that Gladio isn’t going to interrupt, Ignis removes his visor and massages the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t replace the accessory once he’s done, which Gladio is thankful for. Without it, maybe he's got a chance of reading this inscrutable man.

“I’ve thought a lot over the years about us and everything that happened when we left Insomnia. With regards to Gralea... you were right. My being there made a difficult situation even more so for all of you. It was an error in judgment on my part for which I have nothing to offer in mitigation. And I’m so incredibly sorry for that.” Iggy's voice carries a note of sorrow; it’s clear he’s thought of this _a lot_ since Noct's been gone, and knowing Iggy he’ll have beaten himself up over it. Also a lot.

“But when I told you I wanted to prepare for Noct's return,” Ignis continues, his voice finding its edge again, and— _dammit_ —the visor goes back on, “I was devastated by your response, Gladio. Issuing me an ultimatum; what you were essentially saying was that you would only be there for me if I did what you wanted.”

Iggy pauses again and swallows. It’s clear this memory is still painful for him, despite the passage of years. “I needed you, Gladio. Right then and there, I needed you to accept my decision, no matter how foolish you thought it was. And I understand your motivations, but it still doesn’t change the fact that you couldn’t respect my choice. The fact is, right or wrong it wasn’t your decision to make.”

“I know, Iggy,” Gladio replies hoarsely. “Gods I know.”

After a few seconds Ignis uncrosses his arms, the tension bleeding from his posture. Maybe he'd expected them to have this fight all over again and Gladio's agreement is allowing him to ease up on his defences.

“I’ve always believed that if you had feelings for me— _real feelings_ —you would have supported me even though you didn’t like it. But it’s fair to say your recent predicament has given me a different perspective. When I realised you were out there, outnumbered and outmatched, I was forced to consider how it would feel to lose you. When Dave told me he was worried about you, my first instinct was that I wanted to protect you from the horrors out there. I tried to imagine you telling me you were going anyway.”

Ignis ducks his head. “I didn’t enjoy being in your shoes, Gladio. I’m sure that doesn’t surprised you.”

“Does that mean you forgive me?” Gladio dares to ask.

“If you'll forgive me for refusing to stay behind in Altissia.”

“Already done.”

Ignis nods, evidently satisfied. And Gladio breathes, relief and the product of years of regret expelled in that single exhale. He studies Ignis and his too-handsome face and imagines Ignis doing the same in his mind's eye. He’s hit by memories of those exchanged glances—across council chambers and palace function rooms. An unspoken connection between them that held the promise of something magical, if only time and circumstance would allow it. And yeah, Gladio knows he should be thankful for what he’s got, but fortune (or maybe head injuries) favours the brave or so he’s been told.

“So,” he says cautiously. “Where does that leave... us?”

Truly, he’s expecting Ignis to frown and say, “us?” but neither happens. Instead Ignis appears to give the question some thought before embarking on his response.

“In an undefined way it feels like there’s always been an 'us', Gladio. Our lives have been entwined for so long and we've always had something that could have grown...” Ignis stops for a moment, like he’s not sure if he’s talking out of turn or not. “With you here and myself in Lestallum it grew easier to believe that I was misremembering what we were to each other. But coming back to Meldacio has made me realise that neither time nor distance, nor even a world in meltdown can change my feelings for you.”

Gladio swallows hard. “So what are you saying?”

A quick smile. Ignis ducks his head as if he’s looking away. “Truthfully...? I don’t know. The way things are right now... maybe it’s foolish or selfish even to think we can have something for ourselves.”

“Maybe,” Gladio agrees. “But I sure as shit wanna try.”

Ignis appears to consider this, a slow nod following moments later.

If this were a movie, the next thing that would happen would be Iggy would fall into his arms and they’d kiss and maybe it’d segue into some really hot and frenetic sex or tender, poignant lovemaking. Of course, that’d be great and Gladio would be totally down for either of those things, injuries be damned. But instead, and before Gladio can suggest either of those options Iggy nods again and says, “I should tend your wounds,” and just like that the spell is broken.

There’s silence as Ignis works. Gladio's transfixed watching a man with almost ten years' experience of managing without his sight check wounds and dressings with complete confidence. He answers Ignis's questions about his pain levels honestly, but beyond that the conversation dries up completely. Gladio can almost hear the cogs turning, so with nothing else to do, he waits for the other shoe to drop.

Ignis's lips purse, like he’s only prepared to let out any words once they’ve been approved by that big fuckin' brain of his. Finally he’s done with his vetting process and he removes his visor again. His right eye searches Gladio out, almost finding its target before it settles just left of centre, making Gladio fight the instinctive urge to reach up and check why Ignis is staring at his ear.

“As wonderful as it feels to clear the air between us, I feel obliged to point out that it doesn’t change anything in respect to my hunting?”

The intonation implies that it’s a question, but there will be no negotiation. They said everything they needed to say years ago and it’s not like Gladio's got anything to throw into the bargain anyway. Iggy's gonna hunt no matter how much Gladio doesn’t want him to, so there’s no point in trying to re-state his case about how much he hates seeing the other man going headlong into danger. Also, they’re here now because Iggy totally saved his ass so it ain’t like he’s really got a leg to stand on at this point.

“Yeah, I know.” He watches Ignis relax minutely, the tension in his posture easing slightly, presumably at another bullet dodged. “You're makin' quite a name for yourself out there, you know?”

Ignis huffs, a sound of disapproval as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I'm a circus act.”

“No you ain’t,” Gladio counters firmly. “You’ve done what seemed completely impossible. Understandable that people are in awe of that.”

“Well, I’m not going to deny it's taken a lot of work. I have Aranea to thank for getting me to where I am.”

The mention of the commodore floats like an invitation in front of Gladio. He hesitates for a moment, then reaches out to take it anyway. “Yeah... about you and Aranea...”

Ignis's head lifts up and there’s a hint of a wry smile on his face. “Is this courtesy of the rumour mill or just the workings of your active imagination?”

“Talkin' to her, actually. She made things sound pretty cosy between you.”

Ignis offers him a wry smile. “Surely you realised that was for your benefit?”

Well, yeah. Gladio ain’t _that_ stupid. Aranea's always had an uncanny knack for pushing people’s buttons; the question is, is she completely full of shit or actually embellishing a truth on this occasion? Ignis's tone borders on teasing, so maybe he’s going to leave that question mark over their relationship right where it is.

“Glad I was such good entertainment for her,” Gladio grumbles.

“If it’s any consolation, even when I was at my angriest with you she always thought I should give you another chance.”

That’s a surprise. Now he feels like a bit of a dick. He makes a noise of acknowledgement purely for Iggy's benefit, wonders if anything about this conversation won’t leave him feeling like he doesn’t know which way is up anymore. Reality hits him suddenly, like being dunked in icy cold waters. What does he have to offer someone like Ignis anymore?

“Probably don’t deserve one.”

He’s looking down at his lap, so is surprised when a hand reaches out, moving along the bed covers until it finds his. It’s cris-crossed with scars. He watches as those long, calloused fingers entwine with his own, mesmerised by their contrasting skin tones.

“Gladio,” Ignis says, his voice firm and reassuring, like the old days when he always had a plan no matter how much shit they all found themselves in. “I know what it’s like to lose yourself in the darkness. To have no hope; to see no point going on.

“After Noct had gone, I found myself obsessing over what it would be like if I just let myself get killed. Indeed, it would be easy enough and no one would think it was anything other than the unfortunate consequence of fighting daemons, especially given my blindness. But something always stopped me. Just like it stopped you. Even though you weren't yourself before you went out to Old Lestallum you still fought fearlessly until you couldn’t. Maybe it was for Noct. Or maybe deep down it’s because you know that life is always worth fighting for. That no matter how bad things are now, there is _always_ something around the corner worth staying here for.”

The hand holding Gladio's squeezes. Gladio swallows, giving the words an opportunity to sneak past the lump in his throat.

“This... _Us_ ,” he says hoarsely putting voice to his fears. “I don’t want you to feel like you need to do this just to stop me doin' somethin' stupid.”

“I’m here because I want to be, Gladio,” Ignis replies evenly. “I can be a friend to you if that’s all you need, but if we both want more, then I think it’s time we acknowledged that.” A tender smile transforms his normally serious features and Gladio's heart skips a beat. “I think we've wasted enough years, don’t you?”

Gladio ain’t gonna disagree with that. The world is still fucked and despite there being no end to the darkness in sight, the future already seems a bit brighter. Maybe Noct will return tomorrow. Maybe he won’t. But with Ignis beside him, he knows he’ll survive the wait no matter how long it takes.

“We've got a lot of lost time to make up for,” he agrees, covering Ignis's hand with his own, enjoying that physical connection and losing himself to thoughts— _exciting_ thoughts—of what could be.

“I do have one _small_ condition though?”

Gladio starts at that until he realises that Ignis is still smiling and wrinkling his nose. And ain’t that the cutest shit he’s ever seen, even though Iggy would probably murder him if he says as much. Instead Gladio chuckles softly and shakes his head.

“Does it involve soap?”

“It might.”

“And toothpaste?”

“ _Absolutely_.”

Gladio pictures himself showered and clean, Ignis running his fingers through hair that doesn’t snag on knots every inch of the way. Yeah... he definitely wants that.

“Okay, Iggy,” he says, giving the other man's hand a squeeze. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

 

**End**

 

 

 

 

 

 


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